In the Name of the Mother
by MorticiaYouSpokeFrench
Summary: The first time Sandor meets her, she is set to marry his brother in a week's time.
1. In the Name of the Mother

**Notes: While reading this story, assume that the whole plot involving Jon Arryn has been postponed by a few years. Jon went north to join the Night's Watch, and winter has come, but the other Starks never left Winterfell. Also, since this story takes place a few years after the original series, Sansa is not underage.**

**The title is taken from the oath of knighthood: "In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent."**

* * *

**In the Name of the Mother**

He hears of her a few days before he actually sees her. It is hard to miss the giggles and the speculation. The more compassionate ones shake their heads sadly, and murmur about it being such a shame. Those who are more mean spirited speculated gleefully over why Ned Stark, the respectable Warden of the North, and best friend to King Robert, would throw his beautiful young daughter away on a monster like Clegane.

True, the north had fallen on hard times now that winter had come, and it seems that even Winterfell's wealth isn't enough to continue funding the shipments of food and supplies from further south. True, Gregor Clegane had accumulated quite a bit of wealth, the result of many won tourneys and of carrying out many less than savory tasks for the filthy rich Lannisters. Still, the girl was very beautiful, and she came from an old and respectable, if now impoverished, family. Surely Stark could have found a better match for her than the Mountain!

Some mutter that Ned Stark has simply begun to lose his mind. Rumors have circulated that during this time of crisis in the north, when food and furs were scarce, Stark had wasted his limited money on large supplies of dragonglass. King Robert must have noticed it too- the decline of his friend; Since Ned stark had arrived with his wife and daughter in King's Landing, the court had noticed an angry tension between the king and the Warden of the North, who had once been as close as brothers.

A few days after he'd heard the rumors, he sees her for the first time. She cannot be unaware of the gossip, of how people nudge each other and point when she walks by, of the pitying looks. She pretends as if she doesn't, though. She walks past them all, pale-faced but straight-backed, not deigning to look sideways at those who are staring at her with morbid fascination. She remains proud and composed and so very, very beautiful.

He doesn't know why, but something about the stubborn bravery of such a little thing touches him. He knows, though, that she won't be able to maintain her cool indifference when she's being tortured by his brother. Gregor will break her, and the thought of this helpless pretty girl being at his mercy makes Sandor want to stab something.

He gets drunk that night. He gets filthy, stinking, drunk, trying to erase from his mind the image of his brother and what he would do to the girl, what he had done to Sandor. The more he drinks, though, the more the thoughts clang around in his head, the more the images swim before his eyes, unrelenting. So he gives up and wanders back towards the keep, unsteady on his feet.

And then, there she is, his brother's bride, slipping out of the godswood. He doesn't think before he acts. He simply grabs her by the wrist and pulls her back into the shelter of the trees.

She cries out in alarm and begins to struggle futilely.

"Stop squirming, girl, before you injure yourself!" he growls, "I won't hurt you."

She stops and lifts her face up to look at him for the first time. He sees her eyes take in his scars and sees the comprehension that follows. She has heard of him.

"You're Sandor Clegane."

"Aye," he rasps, "I'm to be your goodbrother in a week's time. Thought I'd come introduce myself."

"What do you want?"

He's not sure what he wants, but the words spill out of him before he can give it any thought.

"To give you a warning. Back out while you can, girl, cancel the wedding before it's too late. If you don't, you'll be dead before the year is out. And you'll wish you had been dead a long while before that, believe me."

He must not have been the first one to try and warn her, because when she gives him the answer with a stubborn jut to her jaw it sounds well-rehearsed.

"I have every trust in having a happy marriage with Ser Gregor, and I look forward to making him a good wife," she answers stiffly. "I am honored to be betrothed to such a well-known and respected knight-"

"Shut up!" he roars at her, "Stop talking, you stupid girl! You think I care for all your practiced pretty words? You think your pretty little courtesies will protect you once you belong to my brother? You think if you twitter this tripe out at him like a pretty little trained bird from the southern islands he'll suddenly behave like a noble knight in a song?"

"Ser Gregor _is_ a knight," she points out.

"Aye, he's a knight," Sandor growls, "he knelt before Rhaegar Targaryen and was charged in the name of the mother to defend the young and the innocent and in the name of the maid to protect all women. A year later he killed the man's daughter and his babe in front of their mother's eyes, and then, still covered in their blood, he raped her and killed her."

She lets out a little sob.

"Stop crying, girl! Why are you crying? Aren't you honored to be betrothed to such a gallant knight? You see these scars? You want to know how I got them?"

She shakes her head. "Please, Ser!"

"I'm not a ser, my brother is. Want to know more about your precious knight? When I was six years old he found me by the fireplace playing with a toy of his. He was already a squire, he had no use for the toy, hadn't even given it a second glance. But when he found me playing with it, he picked me up under his arm and shoved my face into the coals as I screamed. There's a pretty little story for you to put into a song for your beloved knight.

"I saw him once throw a newborn kitten into the fire and laugh at the noises it made. And that was when we were both children, mind you, once he got old and big enough it didn't take him long to start doing the same to people.

"The noble Ser Gregor killed all the wives he's married so far, you think he'll spare you? You think if you chirp all your pretty practiced words at him like a little bird he won't pluck your feathers and break your neck? Forget about the money, little bird, forget about honor, it's not worth it. None of it is. Call off the betrothal."

She shakes her head. "I can't. My father-"

"If your father insists on the bloody wedding, then run away. Better exiled than raped, brutalized, and murdered. I'll even help you if you want, smuggle you out of the city."

"I have a duty," she replies stubbornly. "Winter has come, and the money your brother will bring-"

"The bloody peasants knew winter was coming as well," he interrupts her. "If they didn't have the sense to save up food for it, why should you sacrifice yourself for them?"

"It isn't just the food," she replies, "we need to buy an army."

That wasn't what he was expecting.

"An army?" he replies, stupidly.

She laughs shortly. "Now who's the bird, repeating what I say? Yes. There is an army beyond the Wall, an army of the dead, and we need one of our own to fight it."

"Army of the dead? White walkers and the like?"

She nods, and he needs a few moments to absorb that information, to contemplate the implications. Finally, he says: "Thought those were legends."

She laughs again, bitterly. "Those in the south like to think that they're legends. We in the north have been fighting them since winter has come. They were legends for us too, at first, and then they were rumors. Finally, they became an undeniable reality."

"What about the wall? Wasn't it built just for the purpose of keeping out such monsters?"

"You believe me then? About the army of the dead being real?" she looks up at him.

"No one would willingly marry Gregor over a mere story," he snorts at her. "I've not choice but to believe you."

"King Robert didn't," she says softly.

"King Robert's a lazy old drunk who ignores whatever information is inconvenient to him," he informs her. "Now, tell me about the wall."

"It keeps them out," she explained, "but the dead- they're not like a human army. They simply started laying down and climbing over each other over and over again, mountains of bodies growing higher and higher until they get to the top. Pouring boiling oil over them doesn't stop them, they don't feel pain. They don't even notice it. The only thing that stops them is fire. We have kept them at bay so far with fire, but the wall is long and we are undermanned. We have called everyone in the north to the wall to fight, but even so, manpower over the wall is stretched thin. We are running out of flaming arrows to shoot at them, we are running out of fuel, out of supplies, out of food. Our men are tiring, and the dead never sleep. They keep coming and coming in droves, no matter how many before them were killed. Our defense is on the edge of collapse, and it is not only the fate of the north that rests in our hands, but the fate of all of Westeros."

"No one has come to your aid?" he asks, though he already knows the answer.

"No one believes. No one wants to believe. They'd rather think my father has been foolish about managing his money and is now begging and spreading stories to cover for his mistakes. So, you see- I have no choice. We need more arrows, we need more men, we need all the things we no longer have the money to buy, and your brother-"

"My brother is not your only choice!" he snarls at her. "There are many rich men in Westeros, and you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. In this city alone there must be dozens who would give their left bullock to marry you!"

She blushes but shakes her head at him. "We don't need just some money, or any left bullocks for that matter, we need an army- we require a fortune. Even the ridiculously rich Tyrells won't give up hundreds of thousands of dragons just to marry a pretty girl from an impoverished house. Your brother, though- no one else will marry him after what he did to his previous wives, and he doesn't care much for his money, I suppose everyone is so scared of him that he can just take what he wants. My father looked for other alternatives, he looked hard. He came to King's Landing to beg for Robert's help in person. He sent out dozens of ravens to every house wealthy enough in the seven kingdoms. Your brother is the only one who accepted our offer, and we are running out of time."

"So, your father sold you to be raped and killed for his army," he says harshly.

She frowns at him. "It's not like he wanted to. He's devastated over it. But when one weighs the fate of all of Westeros against that of one innocent girl, the right choice is obvious. It is simply my bad fortune to be that innocent girl."

He doesn't know what to reply to that, so he says nothing. She will not be convinced.

They both remain silent for a while, looking at each other but feeling that all there was to be said had already been said. Finally, she shifts and sighs. "I should be getting back to my room. Thank you for trying to warn me about your brother."

"Don't know why I bothered," he grumbles truthfully, "Bloody useless it turned out being."

"Perhaps it didn't change the outcome, but I appreciate the sentiment, truly I do."

"Aye, sentiment. There's another bloody useless thing. A lot of good it will do you a week from now, when my brother fucks you."

She flinches but doesn't back down. "It isn't useless. I think when enduring suffering, having something nice to think about is the only good thing one can do."

She knows nothing yet, about enduring suffering. Knowing what is coming is not the same as experiencing, and she does not yet know what it truly is to endure torture. She will soon enough, though.

He does not feel like telling her that, though, she'll find it out for herself too soon. So instead he says: "Something nice to think about? All the stories I told you tonight, they're something nice to think about, are they?"

"Knowing that someone cares is."

He wants to contradict her, to tell her that he doesn't care, but that would be a lie. So instead, he tells her he'll walk her to her room. She accepts, as if it isn't all a bloody jape- him pretending to protect her when she'll be delivered into his brother's hands in a week's time.

He wonders why he cares as he walks silently beside her. He had long ago stopped caring about all the injustices and horrors of the world. It was useless to care, it only made you feel like shit, and it didn't change anything. But he had never been completely able to shut down his emotions when it came to his brother. And the thought of Gregor having her, the thought of her courage, her determination, her sad resignation, how bloody brave and beautiful she was and how little that would matter once his brother got his hands on her, shakes him. Sandor feels the sudden urge to vomit, or maybe to cry.

When she comes to a stop in front of the door to her room, he has to clear his throat before he can talk. "What I told you- about my scars. No one else knows that. Keep it that way."

She nods solemnly and assures him that she will.

For a moment, he considers issuing a threat if she tells anyone, but in the end he doesn't. With what can one threaten a woman betrothed to Gregor Clegane?

* * *

In the end, his decision is simple. He has wanted to do it for so bloody long. He has dreamed of it a thousand times. He has simply been waiting for the right moment to come.

He had never thought that the right moment would look like this. He had assumed it would come at some tournament, where they faced off against each other and he could kill his brother legally, with no repercussions. He might even have been honored if he had managed that- defeating the great Mountain in a legitimate contest of skill.

There is no honor in what he is about to do.

It's cowardice, plain and simple. Sneaking up on an unarmed man in his sleep to cut his throat. It marks him as the worst sort of craven. Still, the risk of Gregor winning in a fair fight is too great, and it isn't only Sandor's life on the line if he fails. Sandor reminds himself of what is at stake, and then reminds himself that he cares nothing for honor or what anyone thinks of him. Then he steels himself, and slowly pushes open the door to his brother's room.

His hand is sure as he turns the knob. Once he had made his decision he had been smart about the planning. He had not drunk any wine, had kept a clear head. He had waited patiently until the right moment, hiding in shadows, making his way slowly and cautiously to his brother's lodgings. When he hears the slow breathing that indicates a deep sleep coming from the room, he opens the door patiently, slowly, inch by painstaking inch, holding his breath for the sound of a creak.

He steps in and makes his way towards the hulking figure on the bed.

The sound of his sword being drawn from his sheath is a mere whisper, but it is enough to wake his brother.

Gregor has always been dismayingly fast for a man of his size, and before Sandor can reach him he is already on his feet, towering over even his huge younger brother.

It doesn't matter, Sandor is armed, and Gregor isn't. He stabs at his brother, but Gregor, with the startling speed that men seem suddenly capable of when their lives are at risk, catches Sandor's wrist and begins to _crush_.

The sword falls helplessly from his hand, but Sandor doesn't allow himself to voice his agony, he doesn't allow himself a moment to think, he simply catches the hilt with the other hand as it falls and stabs the sword into Gregor's stomach.

With a grunt, Gregor falls to his knees. Sandor pulls his sword out and stabs again- this time in the eye. Gregor makes no sound, but he keels over with a humongous thud.

Panting, Sandor allows himself a moment to stare at his brother's dead body. Then he hurries out of the room, sheathing his sword awkwardly with his left hand. He can't be here if someone decides to come and investigate the sound.

His right wrist is in agony, and he holds it tightly to his body with his other hand. Other than that concession, he allows himself to pay not attention to the pain. He remains concentrated and clear-headed as he maneuvers his way away from his brother's room, and only when he is locked safely back in his own room does he allow himself to fall on the bed and laugh.

* * *

He has bandaged his hand to the best of his ability, and while it still hurts dreadfully whenever it is jostled, but he thinks it is slowly improving. He has told the few brave enough to ask that he stumbled over a tree root while drunk and tried to catch himself at a bad angle, but he can see that they don't believe him.

The coincidence of Sandor having injured himself the very night his brother was mysteriously murdered escapes no one. The fact that the Clegane brothers hated each other is also well-known. They all know that it was Sandor that did it, but none of them has any proof. Perhaps none of them care, either.

Still, he can hear the whispers as he walks into the great hall. _Kinslayer. Coward._ He easily ignores them as he kneels before the Iron Throne, where he has been summoned by the king.

"Ah, yes, Clegane," Robert mutters, reading from a list, and Sandor knows from his red face and slight slur that he is already drunk. "Due to your brother's- _hmmm-_ unfortunate murder, you are now the rightful heir to your house and lord of Clegane Keep. Since you have taken no vows, and are not truly a rightful member of the Kingsguard, I offer now to release you from your service in order to allow you to claim your inheritance."

Sandor bows. "Thank you, Your Grace."

To the king's right he can see Ned Stark frowning at him, but he pretends not to notice.

"Dismissed," Robert says, barely hiding a yawn, and Sandor strides away, ignoring them all.

Shortly after leaving the hall, he feels a hand grab his wrist.

He wrenches it away and spins around, preparing to beat up the person foolish enough to take such a liberty, only to see that it is her.

"Little bird," he sighs, and indicates for her to follow him. Leading her down a few winding corridors, they end up in a somewhat more remote part of the keep, where there is less chance of them being overheard. Once they are standing in a sheltered little alcove, he finally turns back to her, taking her in.

"Come to pay your condolences?" he asks, smirking slightly.

"People are saying that you killed him," she replies.

"Gossiping cunts can't prove anything," he tells her lazily.

"No, they can't. There are some, though, to whom the timing seems suspect. To my family, the timing is very inconvenient."

He knows what she means by that, but he feels unapologetic. He had known her reasons for wanting to marry Gregor when he had decided to kill his brother, and he had done it anyways.

"Gregor would have probably married you, fucked you, and then refused to give your father the money," Sandor replies. "He doesn't care about honor. Might be the timing was actually fortunate for your family."

She nods, and then takes a deep breath as if to gather her courage. "My father plans to make you the same offer he made your brother."

He is not surprised to hear that. Doubtlessly, though, Ned Start expects him to refuse. He had been lucky to find even one person willing to give away their whole fortune for gift of his daughter's hand. He cannot expect to be so fortunate a second time.

He says nothing, though, and after a long period of stubborn silence, she prompts: "Do you intend to accept his offer?"

"Aye, little bird, I'll accept."

She lets out a slow breath of air, and something about the way she is looking at him compels him to continue: "I'll accept, and I'll even give him the money before the wedding takes place, so that if you would rather run off than marry me, you can do it with a clear conscience."

The smile she gives him then is faint and tentative, but her eyes are bright and happy.

"Thank you," she says. And then: "I won't run off."

He shrugs at that, and then abruptly turns around and leaves before she can make him do anything else foolish simply by looking at him with her blue eyes.

* * *

Ned Stark approaches Sandor not an hour later, and describes to him the nature of the agreement that had existed between himself and Gregor. Sandor does not bother to tell him that he knows it already.

"I would be willing to offer you the same terms as I offered your brother," Stark finally says, looking him straight in the eye unembarrassed, as though he has not just asked for an obscene amount of money in exchange for the right to his daughter's cunt.

Sandor plays along, pretending as if there were nothing unusual or audacious about such a request. "I accept."

Stark freezes for a moment in shock but recovers quickly. He nods at Sandor, looking grim, but then- it's not like Sandor expected him to be happy about getting what he wanted.

"When do you want the wedding?" Stark asks.

"We can keep the same date you agreed on with my brother," Sandor replies. "That way, any arrangements you have already made will not go to waste."

Stark stiffens. "That is in less than a week's time. With your brother's death so new it would be unseemly-"

"I don't give a fuck if it's unseemly!" Sandor growls, "Do you want the money or not?"

"I want the money," Stark admits, and Sandor gives a satisfied nod. "Follow me, then."

It is obvious that the Warden of the North is unused to taking orders, but he follows Sandor wordlessly nevertheless. He knows which of the two of them holds the power and which is desperate.

Sandor can feel Stark's discomfort radiating off him and he follows him down the corridors of the keep. He understands it: Sandor is a brute, an ugly hound, and now he is a kinslayer and a coward as well. But his is also the man who is about to give Stark what he so desperately needs.

Sandor leads Stark to his rooms and rummages through his papers until he finds a blank paper, a quill, and the seal he uses to mark all official communications to the bank that handles his money.

He writes a brief note with the order to transfer to Ned Stark the appropriate sum and shows Stark the note before sealing and addressing it.

Stark looks startled when Sandor hands him the note. "You're giving it to me now? We haven't even signed a contract yet!"

"Everyone knows how bloody honorable Ned Stark is, I know you won't renege on our agreement," Sandor says, rather than admit the real reason- the one he had given the little bird. "Besides, I don't want his bloody money. Didn't think you'd mind getting it sooner, seeing how urgently you need it."

"I don't. That is- thank you."

Sandor shrugs, and Stark seems to realize that he is being dismissed, because after casting him one last thoughtful look, he turns and leaves the room.

* * *

Ned Stark leaves King's Landing the next day, presumably to put the money Sandor gave him to good use, but according to what Sandor has heard he will return in time to attend the wedding. He doesn't know for sure- he hasn't spoken to the little bird since the day she confronted him outside the hall.

The next Stark he speaks to is not his future wife, nor is it her father, but rather the Lady Catelyn Stark.

He knows who she is the moment she walks into his rooms- she is an older lady, but still very beautiful, and obviously the source of Sansa's looks. Having her appear in her chambers is so unexpected, that he stands there stupidly, unable to think of anything to say.

Thankfully, she doesn't seem to require any pleasantries from him and gets straight to the point. "You killed your brother."

"I don't admit to anything," he grunts. Everyone knows that he had done it, just as they had known with Gregor and Elia Martel, but as long as there was no confirmation, people find it most convenient to pretend ignorance.

She takes a step towards him and smiles. "I wanted to thank you."

This surprises him. Any parent would be relieved that their daughter had avoided marrying Gregor, but Ned Stark has treated him with wary suspicion and rightly so.

"Might be too soon to thank me," he points out. "Might turn out I'm just as bad as my brother is. You don't know that I'm a good man or that I won't hurt her." In point of fact, he isn't a good man, though he has no intention of hurting her.

"I don't know that," Lady Stark agrees. "Not for sure. I do know, though, that you gave Ned the money before the wedding and without making him sign a contract- you were giving her an out. I also don't know what's been said between you and my daughter, but I know that she's smiling again, and singing softly to herself. She'd stopped doing that after the betrothal to your brother."

"Singing?" he asks. To think that he had named her a little bird without even knowing that she sang!

Lady Stark smiles at him. "She always sings quietly as she works, you'll see that for yourself once you're married. Her favorite song is 'Florian and Jonquil'."

Sandor snorts. "She better not expect much by way of romance from the likes of me, or she'll be disappointed. I'm not some stupid cunt knight from a song."

Catelyn Stark winces at the curse word, but to his surprise she does not lose the pleased expression she has been wearing. She merely takes a step closer to him, and he has to resist the urge to back away.

"You are not a man of tender words, but rather of actions," she says. "And if the ordeals we have undergone recently have done nothing else, they have shown which is the more valuable trait."

She takes his hand in both of hers and kisses it. "We are to be family soon, Sandor. If you do nothing more than preventing Sansa from marrying your brother, I would love you only for that. I hope with time, though, affection will grow and you will become part of the family in truth."

It had never occurred to him before that it might even be a conceivable option- being accepted into the Stark family. Now that she had brought it up not only as a possibility but as one she wished for, he feels- well, he would rather die of mortification than voice out loud what he feels about it, so he merely nods at her and gives her hand a little squeeze.

She turns to leave, and Sandor remains to sit on his bed and have a long think about his mother and his sister. It has been a long time since he had a family, and he had not expected to have one again. To think that his new family would be the highborn Starks- noble, proud, and famously honorable- he cannot help but laugh out loud, shaking he head incredulously.

* * *

He does not feel like laughing anymore when he is standing in the Great Sept of Baelor a few days later, surrounded by all manner of pomp and royalty, and waiting for his bride to be brought in by her father. Rather, he is wondering what in the seven hells he has gotten himself into.

Lord Stark had arrived only half an hour earlier, still in his traveling clothes and looking harried and weary. He had been ushered away by his wife to be smartened up, while Sandor has been instructed to don his cloak and prepare for the imminent ceremony. Now he stands at the front of the sept, being watched curiously by all the guests.

Eddard Stark is the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North and a close friend of the king besides, which merits the use of the Great Sept for this wedding. Despite this, the king himself is not in attendance, and Sandor wonders if this is due to the rumored strife between him and his old friend, or if it is simply a matter of Robert being a lazy old drunk. Two of the king's younger children are in attendance, though- Tommen and Myrcella. Jon Arryn is there, and so are Lords Baelish and Varys, but the majority of the guests are northern men- banner men of Lord Stark who have accompanied him down south to King's Landing. Sandor does not think he is imagining the looks of hostility he is being shot from that corner of the room. Presumably they resent their beautiful and gentle princess being forced to marry a dog like him, and he can't exactly blame them.

He does not mind as much the stare of Catelyn Stark, who now sits at the front and gives him a smile when he catches her eye. She feels like an ally.

Then a door opens, and Lord Stark is striding towards him with his daughter on his arm, and Sandor forgets all about the onlookers in his nerves. Stark has freshened up and is now wearing something regal looking in grey and white, but Sandor hardly notices him for staring at the little bird. She has always been a rare beauty, but now she looks too beautiful to be of this world. What is more, she is smiling. At him!

A week ago, the first time he saw her, she had looked so different. Also beautiful, yes, but proud, brave and stoic. Now, she has softened. The smile she gives him is small and shy, but there is a warmth to it, a sweetness.

It boggles his mind that this is the same crying girl in the godswood, who was trying so hard to be brave. And to think that it is his actions that have wrought this change in her- well, Sandor would never admit it, not even under torture, but for a moment he understands the appeal of knighthood. She is staring at him as if he is her hero, which is utterly ridiculous, but it also makes him feel more manful than he has ever felt on a battlefield or during a fight.

She is brought to his side by her father, who kisses her cheek, gives Sandor an inscrutable look, and then goes to sit by his wife.

He ignores the septon's ramblings in favor of staring at his bride out of the corner of his eye. She, in contrast, is listening to the septon, an expression of utmost concentration upon her fine features.

Finally it is time to give her his cloak, and the way his huge cloak engulfs her and trails on the floor serves to drive home just how small and delicate she is in contrast to him and his brother. She doesn't belong with a brute like him any more than she belonged with a monster like his brother, but he, at least, will not hurt her, and he will try his best to keep her happy. He hopes she knows that.

He thinks she does, because she gifts him with another tender smile when his hands come to her neck to secure the cloak. What is more, she takes his hands in hers when she pledges her love and takes him as her lord and husband. He repeats the words and takes her for his lady and wife, far too aware of the eyes of her parents upon them when he presses a light kiss to her lips.

Then it is time for the feast. The shortage of funds in the Stark coffers is apparent here- it is far less elaborate than one would expect of the wedding of a girl of Sansa Stark's rank, but the food is good and the wine is plentiful. He is seated with his new wife on one side and Catelyn Stark on the other, which upon reflection is as good a seat as he could hope for- between the only two people in attendance who don't seem to dislike him.

His new wife eats the food only sparingly, but makes up for it when the time comes for dessert and she piles a truly astonishing amount of little cakes onto her plate. Her expression upon eating them is nothing short of rapturous, and Sandor curiously tastes one. It's quite good- lemon flavored, with the tartness nicely offsetting the sugary sweetness. He piles a few onto his plate as well.

"Father, who is that?" Sansa asks a few minutes later, nodding her head towards the table where Lord Stark's men are seated. "He's sitting with the rest of our banner men, but I don't recognize him."

Sandor immediately sees who she is talking about. He is sitting slightly apart from the rest of the men, aloof but relaxed, an odd white streak in his otherwise brown hair. He very obviously does not belong with the other northerners. He meets Sandor's eye and inclines his head politely.

Ned's face twitches slightly. "That's Jaqen H'gar. I met him on the wall. Well, Arya did when she snuck in to join the battle. I hired him to do a little job for me a while back-" he clears his throat "-when you were still betrothed to the Mountain. Thought I might as well invite him to the wedding since he was coming down south."

Sansa hums her understanding, but her attention has already wandered elsewhere. "My lord," she says to Sandor, "Could you please pass the lemon cakes?"

Impressed that she has already eaten the huge pile that had been on her plate, he reaches for the platter, containing the cakes, only to find that it is already empty. She notices at the same time he does, and her face falls.

"Here," he says, taking the last cake from his plate and putting it on hers, "Have this one."

"Oh, I couldn't!" she protests, like the polite little thing she is.

"I wouldn't have eaten it anyways," he tells her. "Too damn sweet. Don't know how you can eat that shit."

She considers this for a moment. "We'll split it," she finally decides. "Half and half."

"Told you I don't want the damn thing," he replies, but he knows this is a weak retort. She obviously saw him stuffing them into his mouth greedily just a few minutes before.

"I insist," she decrees imperiously.

He generally doesn't like being ordered around, but she does it so sweetly. Also, he likes that she isn't intimidated by him. So he merely shakes his head, and cuts the cake in half. "Bossy little bird," he mutters.

She doesn't seem to take it as an insult, even though it obviously was, and merely smiles at him.

From Sansa's other side, Stark makes a noise and stands up. "I should probably go and talk to him," he declares, and it takes Sandor a moment to realize that he is still talking about the man with the white streak in his hair. "We have some business to discuss, and some plans have changed."

Why he thinks any of them care about this is beyond Sandor, and the little bird beside him shrugs indifferently as well.

His goodfather wanders off, and Sandor is left with his goodmother and his bride, who are both far better conversationalists. Sandor reflects that his bride obviously got her charm and people skills from her mother, who is entertaining them both with unflattering stories from Littlefinger's childhood. At one point she raises her head and shoots a venomous look at the table where Baelish is seated, and Sandor wonders what the man did to cause such hostility from a once good friend.

Lady Catelyn is being marvelously unladylike, gesturing widely for emphasis during her story, and with a wave of her hand she accidentally knocks over the goblet of wine he has been served with dessert.

"Oh dear," she mutters, dabbing halfheartedly at the spilled wine. "I'm terribly sorry. Still, it is probably for the best. You've had plenty of wine during supper, and you wouldn't want anything interfering with your husbandly duties during the wedding night."

Sandor, who had been trying very hard all evening not to think of his upcoming husbandly duties, promptly chokes on his spit, and spends the next few minutes coughing and trying to breathe. Sansa beside him blushes the shade of a tomato.

By the time he has recovered, the wine has all been cleared from the table, but Sandor reflects that this is probably for the best. The wine smelt a bit strange to him. He had once seen Cersei Lannister eat a cheese that was covered in furry mold, so he can only guess what kind of weird concoction nobles might consider to be acceptable dessert wine. Gods only know what that goblet had contained.

Once the meal is over, people begins to leave, and Sandor is relieved to see that the traditional bedding ceremony has been skipped. He is not sure if the northern men forgo the tradition out of respect for their lord's daughter, or whether the guests are sobered by the thought of who this bedding ought to initially have been with. Perhaps, he acknowledges, they are horrified by the thought of Sansa having to bed a dog like him. Either way, the only one to call for a bedding had been Littlefinger, and he was soon silenced by the glares of the people around him.

They are left to depart unobtrusively to Sandor's- now their- rooms. Sansa and her father embrace, and exchange a few words, and Lady Catelyn comes over to him and embraces him.

"Welcome to the family," she whispers, kissing his cheek, and he tentatively returns the hug, mindful of the need to be gentle.

Then Catelyn goes to hug Sansa, and he is approached by Ned Stark.

"Take good care of my daughter," Stark commands him.

"I'll try," he replies doubtfully. He has never before been given a charge as precious as Sansa Stark.

Still, the answer seems good enough for his goodfather, and he is given a hearty slap on the back.

Then he is left to take his new wife home.

"Too late to change your mind now," he mutters to his new wife as they leave the dining hall together. It is probably not the best thing to say to one's newlywed wife the first time you are alone together, but he is rather intimidated by the prospect of being a husband to the likes of her, and it is the first thought that comes to mind.

She squeezes his hand. "I told you I wouldn't run off."

"Aye," he replies, "and you'll regret it soon enough, likely as not. Still, I'll try not to give you cause to."

"I won't," she says, "You won't."

Surprisingly enough, she ends up being right.

* * *

**The end.**

**I want to thank you for reading. I've only been initiated into this fandom recently, but I fell in love with it immediately and am really excited to post this little contribution to it.**

**Both positive feedback and constructive criticism are welcome.**


	2. Epilogue

**Some people wanted to know what happened after, and to be honest, I really wanted to write it. So here you go. **

**We've basically gotten all the plot out of the way last chapter, this is primarily fluff :)**

* * *

**Epilogue**

**On the morning following her marriage (Sansa):**

Sansa awakens to the warmth of the sun on her face, and stretches luxuriously, smiling to herself.

She has developed the habit, in recent times, when everything seemed too dark and hopeless, of beginning every morning by laying in bed and thinking of nice things (the story of Florian and Jonquil being her favorite), in order to give herself the motivation to leave bed and face the day.

In recent days, though, her thoughts are no longer of well-loved songs and romantic ballads, but rather of cherished memories. Sandor Clegane offering to help her run away; the look in his eyes when he told her he intended to accept her father's offer and marry her; the softness of his voice when he called her 'little bird'.

Now, after last night, she has a new repository of memories to go over and luxuriate in. The look on his face when she had walked into the sept on her father's arm; the soft kiss her had bestowed on her lips- their first one; the laughter in his eyes when they had shared the last lemon cake at the dinner; their second kiss, once they were alone in their rooms, deeper and more stirring than the first; and finally, the intimacy of taking him inside of her and being wrapped in his arms simultaneously; though there is pain in that memory, it is still a beautiful one.

He appears in the doorway as if summoned by her thoughts. "You're awake, then?" he asks, upon seeing her sitting up.

"Just about," she yawns, stretching again.

"Good. There's something I want to ask you." He sits down on the edge of the bed next to her, and Sansa scoots forwards, so as to lean her head against his shoulder. He seems to like that, as he weaves a hand into her hair while speaking.

"Your parents are leaving today to go back up north."

"They haven't left yet, have they? They wouldn't leave without saying goodbye."

"No, it will probably be around midday before they manage to get out. They need to take leave of the king before going, and he won't be up and about for a few hours yet. He never wakes up this early. You'll miss them, won't you?"

"Yes," she admits. "Very much so. I know that it is the lot of the married woman, though, to live away from her parents."

"What if you didn't need to say goodbye just yet?" he suggests. "I've been thinking. With the war up north, your father could use every good warrior he can get, and I'm one of the best. We're all packed up anyways, in perpetration for going to Clegane Keep. It would not make a big difference in our plans if we were to accompany your parents, instead. What do you say?"

She cannot help her smile, nor can she resist the urge to press a kiss to his cheek. "Despite all your warnings, you are turning out to be a very considerate husband. I like that plan very much. Are you sure it would be alright, though? Leaving your lands alone with no oversight for that long?"

He shrugs. "If whatever and whoever's in there survived being managed by Gregor for years on end, they can certainly manage with no supervision for a few months. We'll go there together after the war is over."

And so it is decided.

* * *

**A letter, written by Sandor Clegane and sent from Castle Black:**

To my pretty little wife,

We've arrived at Castle Black today, and one of the first things your bastard brother did after getting us all situated was give me the letter from you. I was not expecting that, since I've never got a letter on the battlefield before, but you'll hear no complaints from me. It's not been long since we parted at Winterfell, but traveling north has been much more miserable without you. None of the other cunts in your father's service are half as entertaining company as you. And I think some of the younger ones are frightened of me. My little wife is much braver than half the lackwits fighting at the wall.

Your brother Jon is very much how I expected him to be based on your descriptions- polite but reserved. I met your little sister too- you were right in thinking she sneaked up north again to the fight when we didn't find her at Winterfell. Are you sure you're sisters? She's very different from you. You're both fierce, brave little things, though. She told me she'd cut off my balls if I hurt you, and we sparred a bit. She's good. Really good, considering all the training she's had has been with a buggering Braavosi waterdancer. Don't tell her I said that, though. She got all riled up when I told her she fights like a girl, and it was very funny.

Later, once your father and his men were all settled, it was time to join the fighting which I'll admit I'd been looking forward to. Little bird, you might think me a fool once I confess that I thought I would be a great asset to your family in the war. I knew that fighting wights wasn't the same as fighting mortals, but my head was full of thoughts of all the battles I've emerged from victorious, and all the tourney where I beat strong knights with good reputations as fighters into the dirt. Of course, though, all the fighting is being done from atop the wall with flaming arrows, where skill with a sword means bugger all.

Now, I'm not bad with a bow, though it isn't where my strength lies, but I'd never shot them when they were on fire before. Having the fire that close to my face was too bloody unnerving, and I wasn't able to concentrate as I should, and let a few arrows go to waste, flying them recklessly like a green squire. I was quickly reassigned instead to carry around the barrels of ignitable liquid, which I'll admit is a task well suited for a man of my size and strength, but it's not fighting and I felt the humiliation of that.

Your brother Jon might have noticed that my talents weren't being properly used, because he said something about me joining a special mission he's putting together. He didn't give me any details, just said we'd discuss it once the party led by Thoros of Myr gets here, since he'll need them too. They're expected to arrive any day now, so it shouldn't be too long, and I'll tell you more details once I know them.

I can't say I'll be happy to work with that buggering fire worshiper or any of his friends, but anything has to be better than lugging great big barrels that could burst into flame at the smallest spark, all while surrounded by torches and fires at every corner. Have you ever noticed that a state of mind can tire you out just as effectively as physical labor if not more? I've done far harder work than carrying those barrels and on far less sleep, but the constant tension of worrying about the bloody things exploding left me far more exhausted than most battles.

All I could think about when my shift was over (there's another strange thing about this war- fighting in shifts. But the dead men never tire and we do, so it's necessary) was getting into bed, no thought even to bothering to eat. Still, here I am, writing you this letter instead of sleeping. A bloody gallant husband you have here, don't you?

Since we both know I'm about as gallant as your sister is ladylike, I might as well tell you the truth of it. You'll like to hear it, I think, romantic little bird that you are. I fell into bed half dead, but once I was there I remembered how much nicer and warmer it was when you were there to share it with me. I got to thinking how if you were there after I had such a shitty day, you'd probably say something stupid and sweet to make me feel better, and let me fall asleep with my head in your lap. Since that couldn't happen, I did the next best thing, which is write you a letter, instead of getting some much needed sleep. The long and short of it is that I missed you, little bird.

Which brings me to what you asked in your letter about coming to be with me here. If I haven't made it clear yet, I'd like to have you here with me. Your father has decided to let Arya stay and fight since she's too stubborn to do what she's told even if he did try to send her back (also, she's damn good at aiming those arrows). To my mind, if she stays, he can't have any objections to having you stay either. You wouldn't be the only woman here- some of the wildling fighters are women. There being a gigantic magical wall between you and the enemy also eases my mind.

I need to be honest with you, though, little bird- it won't be much fun. It's even colder here than in Winterfell, and here there is no hot water running through the walls and making it warmer. Also, the food is shitty and everyone stinks to high heaven. So don't go subjecting yourself to the miserableness of this camp just on my account. I'll understand if you'd rather stay with your mother in Winterfell. Hells, I wish I could be in Winterfell now instead of here. Whatever you decide is fine, but tell me once you've decided, so I'll know if to get my hopes up.

I suppose that's all for now, I'm going to have another try at getting to sleep. Give Lady a scratch on the head from me, and your mother a kiss on the cheek. As for the kind of kiss I'd like to give you, it's not one you can give to yourself, so you'll just have to wait until the next time we see each other to get it.

Your impatient husband,

Sandor

* * *

**A second letter, sent and received a few days after the first:**

Little bird,

I'm regretting sending my other letter so quickly. It's too early to have gotten any word from you about whether you planned to join me in camp, but if you'd decided to come, I'm sorry for any preparations you've taken for no reason. I've just gotten out of a meeting with your brother and a few others regarding the mission I was telling you about. We're leaving tomorrow at daybreak, and I don't know when we'll be back. I don't want you coming here to camp only for me to be gone, so even if you've decided to come, wait until I send word.

Another thing- I should have taken care of this earlier, but I'm a fool and not used to being married, so I didn't think to do it until now. Enclosed is a document, witnessed and signed by two fellow soldiers, leaving everything I have to you in the event of my death. I don't know if I can give you Clegane Keep or if it needs to go to some male heir or else it reverts back to the Lannisters. Maybe you can ask your maester about that one. I hope you get to keep it, but even if you don't, I have some money to my name in the bank. All in all it should amount to a few tens of thousands of dragons. I think what's there is enough for you to live comfortably, but it's probably not up to the standards you're used to from home. I wish I had more to give you, but as you know, all the money I inherited from my brother went to your father as a bride price to help with the war efforts.

I wish you all the best,

your husband Sandor

* * *

**On the morning following his fever finally breaking (Sandor)**

This is not how Sandor Clegane had envisioned his reunion with Sansa once the war for the living was finally over. Upon waking from a long fever, caused by the injuries he has sustained during the mission, one of which had become infected, Sandor was thrilled to discover that his wife had ignored the instructions in his last letter and had come to the camp to be with him.

It appeared she had not left his sickbed from the moment she arrived, for he awoke to the feeling of his hand clutched in hers, as she slept in an awkward position in the chair beside his bed. Her delight upon opening her eyes and finding him awake and coherent had been everything he could have hoped for, and after she reluctantly released him to call for a healer, he impatiently endured the examinations deemed necessary, eagerly awaiting the moment when he could be alone with his wife.

Now the moment has come though, and somehow, within a few minutes, it has all gone wrong. An icy silence has descended on the room, and Sansa refuses to even look at him, her lips pursed together in anger. Her only concession to affection is the vice-like grip she maintains on his hand, as if he will vanish if she lets go for a minute.

It is a relief when Ned Stark enters the room, full of good cheer. "Clegane! I had heard you were finally awake. It's a relief to see you well. Sansa was worried sick, weren't you, lemon cake? Wouldn't leave his side for an instant!"

Sansa gives an angry little sniff in response.

His goodfather finally seems to notice the stiff atmosphere in the room. "What's wrong?"

"Little bird's got her feathers ruffled over something," Sandor grumbles gruffly.

"Father," says Sansa icily, "would you please inform my husband that I am not a little bird, but a woman, and a lady at that, and expect to be addressed accordingly?"

"See?" Sandor complains, gesturing with his free arm, "She's being ridiculous!"

"Well, I don't know what's going on," Ned concedes, "but Sansa, don't you think that's a bit childish? You've never minded that pet name before."

"Well since I'm so childish, I doubt you two would want my company," Sansa snaps, getting to her feet. "I'll leave you to discuss how foolish I am outside of my presence!"

She gets up, preparing to storm out, and only then seems to realize that she is still holding her husband's hand. Reluctantly, she lets go of it, and marches out, her head held high. Sandor groans.

"What's going on, Clegane?" Ned storms, glancing back to where his daughter had been. "Ever since she arrived two days ago, she wouldn't leave your bedside, worrying about you, and trying to keep you as comfortable as possible. You've been awake for half an hour, and she's suddenly as cold as the north wall! What did you do?"

"Nothing!" Sandor insists. "I don't know what got into her! She was really happy to see me awake at first," he acknowledges, recalling the kisses she had pressed all over his face, teary-eyed but smiling, "but then she suddenly started scolding me. She said that I had been reckless and irresponsible, and that I never should have gone on Jon's stupid mission. I told her that she was the one being stupid-"

He has to repress the urge to flinch back from the venomous look Lord Eddard Stark shoots him. He sighs. "I know, I shouldn't have said that, but she took me by surprise, I wasn't expecting her to attack me. I thought- I thought she'd be proud. I know what all the other northern men think about me marrying her, how everyone pities her for having to marry a Clegane. I wanted to give her a reason to hold her head high. Jon would never have managed to get the Horn of Winter without me. I was fending off five Others on my own while he was digging it up. I thought she'd be proud," he repeats.

Ned softens a bit. "I'm sure she is proud, Clegane, but she is also a wife now. It is only natural for her to have worried."

"She had no reason to," Sandor insists. "No matter what she said, I was not irresponsible. My will left her everything, as she very well knew, and it wasn't an insubstantial amount of money. Besides, I knew that you would take care of her, even if there were problems with the bank. I made sure that even if I died on the mission she would be well taken care of."

Ned chuckles and shakes his head. "For all that you seem to care for Sansa, you still don't understand her very well if that's what you think she was worried about. I would set you straight, but I think Sansa should be the one to do it. I'll go find Sansa and convince her to come back and listen to you, and when she does, you tell her what you told me, and explain why you disagree with her, instead of just dismissing her concerns and calling her stupid." He gives Sandor a stern look.

Sandor scowls at him.

Ned laughs. "There's no need to be so moody, Clegane; Fights between married couples happen. I'm expecting a rather large one myself, when I get home."

Sandor raises his brow. "How did you manage to piss off Lady Catelyn while two hundred leagues away from her?"

His goodfather sighs. "She doesn't know I've done it yet. I finally told Jon the truth about his parentage, and he insists that I tell Catelyn. He says it's caused a breach in our family for far too long."

Ah. Sandor almost feels a twinge of sympathy for his goodfather, but pushes it back. It was the man's own fault for straying. He himself would never be unfaithful to Sansa. Sandor has miraculously stumbled upon a priceless jewel, and he knows better than to treat it like a piece of glass.

"Good luck, I guess," he tells Stark.

"You too, son," Stark replies. "I'll go find Sansa now, and get her to talk to you. You can keep up your end of the bargain by fixing this."

Sandor nods. "I'll do that."

Sansa comes in, a few minutes later, shoulders up and still looking like she was prepared for battle. "My father made me come back here to listen to you."

Sandor nods thankfully.

"Well?" Sansa demands, "What do you have to say? Has he taught you all the secrets to managing irrational women?"

"He didn't like that I called you stupid," Sandor replies. "Gave me a talking to."

This seems to soften Sansa up enough that she sits down on the chair by his bed. "Oh?"

"He was right," Sandor continues. "I shouldn't have called you stupid. I know you're not stupid. So if you said something that doesn't make sense to me, it's because I didn't understand you properly, not because you're a fool."

Sansa softens further at this, giving Sandor the encouragement he needs to move down the bed and make room for her.

"Come," he says, patting the place next to him. "Sit, and explain to me properly what has you so upset."

She acquiesces, kicking off her boots and climbing in next to him, leaning her body against his own.

"Now," Sandor says, once she is situated, "you said something about me being irresponsible. Didn't you get my second letter? I thought you would find it reassuring."

"Reassuring?" Sansa shoots him a look of such incredulity that he knows she is tempted to call _him_ stupid. "You second letter is what had me so angry! Gods, Sandor, you practically announced you were going on a suicide mission. Do you think it wasn't obvious? First getting a long, warm letter from you, promising to tell me about your mission once you knew what it was, and then getting one a few hours later saying nothing about what the mission involved and talking at length about what I would get in the case of your death; you couldn't have made it clearer that you weren't expecting to survive the mission!"

"I just wanted you to know that you would be taken care of either way," Sandor says slowly, trying hard not to get defensive and snap at her.

"Taken care of!" Sansa scoffs. "You talked about me getting Clegane Keep. And all I could think of was going down south without you, all alone. Trying to manage an unfamiliar household filled with strangers by myself. Living in the house where you had been burned, without you there to make new memories of the place with. Did you really think such a prospect would be comforting to me? Did you think about me at all, when deciding to leave on that stupid, suicidal mission?"

"You were the only thing I was thinking about when I went on that stupid fucking mission!" Sandor snaps back, his voice rising.

Sansa scoffs. "Of course. While fighting for your life beyond the wall, I'm sure the only thing you were thinking of was how lovely it would be for your new wife to be left a widow," she says sarcastically. "Don't try to placate me, Sandor."

"I'm not trying to placate you, Sansa," he tells her seriously. "How much do you know about what happened on our mission beyond the wall?"

"Everyone knows the gist of it by now," Sansa replies. "Perhaps not every detail, though. There are many silly rumors flying about."

"Do you know, after getting past the wall, how we managed to keep the wights at bay long enough to get to where the Horn of Winter was hidden?"

Sansa frowns. "Arya said something about Thoros of Myr-"

"Aye, the fucking fire worshiper," Sandor growls, interrupting her. "He cast some sort of spell, I'm not sure exactly what. I try to know as little as possible about these things. But whatever he did, surrounded us by a circle of fire, ten feet high. It moved with us, keeping the wights away until we were in position to get at the horn. Little bird, you know how I am around fire. How do you think I dealt with being surrounded by walls of it on every side? I wanted to turn coward and run, or drink myself into oblivion, I thought I would lose my senses. The only thing that kept me going was thinking of my brave little wife, and how she had been willing to marry Gregor, knowing full well the implications, for the sake of this war and the people she would save. And if my little bird could stand with her head held high and do the most terrifying thing in the world for the sake of her people, then I could do the same for her."

"Oh, Sandor," Sansa turns fully towards him, reaching up to stroke his scarred cheek.

"It was all for you, little bird," he tells her. "So I could be the kind of man worthy of being your husband."

"I'm sorry I made it seem like I didn't appreciate what you did," Sansa whispers remorsefully, still stroking his cheek. "I was just so worried about you. And I've never felt like you need to prove yourself worthy of me, I've thought you were wonderful from the very beginning."

Sandor sighs in mock consternation. "Only your could be ridiculous enough to think that, so I guess I have to forgive you."

Sansa giggles. "And I forgive you for giving me the fright of my life. You must promise me, though, that you will take no more stupid risks. You have done your part in the war, and a significant one at that. From now on you must dedicate yourself to being my husband, and trust that I love you as you are."

She blushes a bit at that admission, giving Sandor a nervous look.

"You love me, do you?" he smirks, raising an eyebrow at her. Then, without warning, he flips and tackles her onto her back on the bed. "What's a little bird like you doing loving an old dog like me? Eh? Eh?" He punctuates every question with a kiss.

She throws her head back and laughs at his silliness, but then sobers up enough to give his playful question a serious answer. "I love you because you're a good man. And the best man for me."

He opens his mouth to contradict her on instinct, but then pauses. "Aye, might be I am," he concedes. "A good man. I wasn't when you met me, little bird, know that. But I knew when I married you that I had an opportunity to make a different life, and I knew that you deserved to be married to a good man. So I tried to be. For you."

"You are," she says, cupping his scarred cheek and smiling up at him. Then, more hesitantly: "Does that mean you love me too?"

"Not if it means you suddenly expect me to start singing you songs and behave like Florian the fool," he replies, giving her a mock suspicious glare.

"I don't expect that at all!" she hurriedly assures him.

He has to laugh at the imploring, hopeful look on her face. "Aye, Sansa, I love you. Marrying you is the best thing I ever did."

"And running into your drunken self in the godswood that night was the best thing that ever happened to me," she smiles.

Despite many subsequent happy events including the birth of half a dozen children, she never amends that statement.


End file.
